The Deamus Chronicles
by writerdude3000
Summary: A collection of little DEAMUS fics that I dream up. Each one different from the previous. Some short, some long. Some happy, some sad. Some prim, some wild. Each and every one entertaining and cute! Because, really, everyone needs a bit of DEAMUS! R&R!
1. Eargasms

xX... this is slashy, so back off if you don't dig. also- i own nothing. so pshaw. please review! it takes two seconds and I'd just totally adore you! ...xX

Finally.

He shut the door quietly behind him.

He looks around. It's cold. The windows are frosted over. A fire dwindles in the fireplace.

He buttons his coat and squats down besides the hefty four poster. There he sees-

-an empty cup which once contained milk

-3 socks (the fourth was, at this time, MIA)

-some coins

-his Christmas gifts for his friends

-a large trunk

-some books he'd never read

...A trunk...

He heaves the trunk out from under his bed with much difficulty. Panting, tired, and still very cold he opens it open. He can just see it, well hidden among his long underwear, sleeping shirts, scarfs, dress robes, and an old cigar box containing some pot.

But there it is.

He lifts it out. It's very heavy. Old. Rusted. But beautiful. It has a charm to it, something that no goblin could ever recreate.

The base's glaze has long since worn off. The crank's fine leather handle is peeling. The horn is scratched and peeling with use. But still it is. and that is all that matters. The horn needs to be attached, yes, but it is a glorious two pieces. Glorious indeed.

He sets the base and horn onto his bed and stops- a creak. a floorboard. could be nothing. But still. Could be footsteps. Someone. Anyone. Harry. Neville. Seamus, even. Coming to get him. To bust him. He goes to the door and looks out. No one. A trick of the ear. He takes out his wand and whispers "muffliato". He breathes. He relaxes.

But only for a moment.

He returns to his bed. To his moment.

He's managed to steal away half an hour or so from his friends. From the world. He has no qualms with the wizarding world, no, it's been good to him. But he misses one thing about the muggle world. Music. What an experience. At its best, it was glorious, full bodied, rich, a sound that filled the ears with such pleasure that it would seem to explode. Back when he was a muggle, he would hear his brother explain to his friends that "the Blur cd gave me Eargasms". Everyone would buy that cd. From a young age, Dean wanted to have an Eargasm. Even though he didn't know what it meant, or what it actually was a play off. He wanted one. Sure, a lot of the muggle music was crap- but when you discovered what was magical (if you will): Duke Ellington, Janis Joplin, The Beatles, Joni Mitchell...

Listening to an album was like nothing else.

He finally knew what an Eargasm was.

He had them,

day after day after day after day.

It was good.

He gladly went home for holidays and would stock up on the latest cds and spend his time, locked in his room, listening and listening and staring at the ceiling and breathing, feeling, BEING the music.

His friends didn't understand,

"Don't you like The Weird Sisters?" Seamus had asked him one day when Dean had tried to explain to him what it was like to listen to hear Bob Dylan wail about "wanting you". The Weird Sisters.

Wizard music was drivel. It was like listening to Panic! At The Disco and believing you were listening to something that made you PART of something. It was like listening to The Fray and thinking you were Indie. It was like knowing "Stairway to Heaven" and calling yourself a Zeppelin fan.

The Weird Sisters?

PAH!

He wished he could take his music, his passion to Hogwarts but there were spells in place. To block all electronic waves. All muggle things.

That's how he was reduced to this.

Sneaking listens in.

Vinyl.

A record player.

An old as hell record player.

One that didn't require being plugged in. Because, obviously, Hogwarts did not have plugs.

One with a crank.

It was old.

It was out of date.

But it was all Dean had.

He assembles it. He goes back into his drunk and pulls out one of the many albums he was.

Joni Mitchell.

Blue.

He's in that mood.

Melancholy.

Very 50s.

Sort of like A Charlie Brown Christmas, he thinks.

Strange.

He cranks the record player.

He puts the record on.

The sound is crackled. It is pure.

He skips the needle to his favorite song. He's adept at the art of this.

He lays on his bed and listens to her. Her voice is full bodied. Rich. Everything music should be. A piano is all she needs. She croons...

_It's coming on Christmas_

_They're cutting down trees_

_They're putting up reindeer_

_And singing songs of joy and peace_

_Oh I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on..._

She's beautiful.

He never thinks about it, really.

She has the look of a smoker.

He examines the album sleeve.

It's blue.

Surprise.

He never thinks about it, really.

For some reason, it's never occurred to him.

She's female, yes.

She's beautiful, yes.

But not in any way of attraction, she's just beautiful.

For a long time,

Dean thought of this as a mortal failing on his behalf.

His inability to see women as attractive creatures.

Something to be drawn to.

To think about while on the bathroom floor,

discovering himself.

He cried.

Why didn't he work?

His parents talk in hush voices about the fact that he'd never had a girlfriend.

Sometimes,

he thinks they wish they could return him and exchange him for another.

Why didn't he work?

_But it don't snow here_

_It stays pretty green_

_I'm going to make a lot of money_

_Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene_

_I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on_

He listened to Bjork screech and wondered.

He listened to The Clash bang and wondered.

He listened to Joni Mitchell and wondered.

He got eargasms.

But he still felt hollow.

He felt wrong.

He felt...

He felt worried at the fact that he loved to go to the department store and get lost in the underwear department. Looking at the different men in various states of undress as they modeled Calvin Klein or something like it.

He felt worried because he would watch Harry Potter get dressed every morning, his eyes barely slits. He watched Harry Potter come back from the shower and he felt worried because he liked to look at his ass.

He felt worried because he didn't think Joni Mitchell was beautiful enough to love, in any way other then "worship worship worship".

After a while he conceded and accepted.

One time he heard Draco Malfoy call Neville Longbottom a "fag".

He finally had a word for his feelings.

Fag.

F

A

G

Those three letters. Perfect. Hurtful.

He wouldn't realize until later that there were other words to describe his sexual longings. That Fag was actually not on the "nice" part of the spectrum.

He didn't tell anyone.

Not even his best friend, Seamus.

No one would understand.

Just like they don't understand Joni.

Just like they don't understand music.

Just like they were content to listen to The Weird Sisters.

Closed Minded.

He thinks as he stares at the red velvet canopy he's stared up a so many times before.

_I made my baby cry._

_He tried hard to help me_

_You know, he put me at ease_

_And he loved me so naughty_

_Made me weak in the knees_

_Oh I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on_

He thinks of Seamus. Of how Seamus loves to have sex. Of how he and Seamus have spent many a night in the owlery, smoking pot and dreaming of marmalade rivers.

He thinks of his Mum. Who cries when she thinks of Aunt Nellie's son, Richard. Who brought home his boyfriend for August Bank Holiday.

He thinks of Harry Potter, and how he doesn't know that they've shared some intensely personal and close moments together.

Dean takes off his scarf.

Suddenly he's not feeling terribly cold.

The music has enveloped him. It washes over him. It drenches him.

He lives for these moments, he realizes. These moments where he can steal away and do the only thing he loves. Listen to music. He only manages to do so once or twice a month, and it's hardly enough, but it has to suffice.

He wonders where his friends are right now.

Probably at Hogsmeade. Or having a snowball fight. Or having a wonderful lunch.

Christmas. Almost Christmas.

In fact, tomorrow he'll be on the Hogwarts Express. Heading home. In 24 hours he'll see his mother on the platform, he'll run into her arms. She'll hug him and kiss him and say she missed him. She'll continue to tell herself it isn't so. She'll tell herself it's a phase.

She'll bring out the magazine she found.

A phase. A phase. A phase. A phase. A phase.

Dean will cry. She'll cry. He'll ask her not to tell Dad.

She'll ask him why he did this to her?

He'll cry.

She'll cry.

He'll wonder if she can ever forgive him.

She'll say she "still loves him"

He'll want to ask "why would you love me less?"

But he doesn't.

He'll go into his room.

Lock the door.

And play his albums.

He won't have to hide it. He won't have to listen to vinyl. He'll just listen and listen and listen and cry and cry and cry and he'll hear his mother downstairs, cooking, crying.

He'll think of Harry Potter's dick.

He'll hate himself.

He'll hate himself.

He hates himself.

"Dean?"

Dean freezes.

He runs and lifts up the needle.

"Fuck"

"Can I come in?"

Seamus doesn't wait for an answer. He just comes in.

"I didn't say you could"

"It's my fucking dorm too"

Dean takes the record off and carefully puts it in his sleeve.

"You ok?"

Dean, horribly, realizes he's been crying. He hastily wipes his sleeve with his sweater.

"Yeah. Fine."

No one says anything as Dean puts the record player back into his trunk and puts the trunk back under his bed.

"I won't tell anyone."

They sit on their separate beds and stare at each other. Dean's eyes obviously puffy and red.

"You missed a good lunch."

Dean plays with his curtain.

"I'm going to miss you over the holiday."

Dean stops playing with his curtain.

"Me too"

Seamus stops picking at his fingernails.

No one says anything about what was going on.

There is a silence.

"You'll never guess who JUST gave me head"

Seamus grins.

Dean does not.

"Who?"

"Guess!"

"But you said I'll never be able to, so save me some time and tell me"

"Lavendar Brown"

"Cool"

It is not.

"Hey Seamus?"

It pains him. He can't. It hurts. Why must he?

"Yeah?"

"I... I... "

God it's awful. God it's cliched. God it hurts.

"I'm gay."

awful. cliched. painful. silence.

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Dean twiddles his thumbs.

"I'll see you after break, mate."

He gets up and leaves.

Dean stares at the doorway.

Dean stares at the ceiling.

Dean starts to cry.

Dean doesn't know why.

He does. He tells himself he doesn't.

He hates Seamus.

He hates himself.

He takes his record player.

He throws it at the wall.

It makes a loud sound as it cracks and breaks and screeches and all the music it has ever played escapes it at this one moment where it makes contact with the old walls of Hogwarts.

All the music. All the Joni, the Duke, the Janis, the Bob, the Led, the Rufus, the Ramones, the Jimi everything...

It's a storm. An assault. Of sounds. Of words. Of images. Of feelings.

Dean closes his eyes.

I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish i was dead.

The music stops. He is breathing heavily.

He whispers...

_It's coming on Christmas_

_They're cutting down trees_

_They're putting up reindeer_

_Singing songs of joy and peace_

_I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on._

xX... Well you finished! won't you review? It makes my day, it really does! ...xX


	2. Pot Giggles

xX... just a teensy weensy Deamus-Drabble. you understand, of course. ...xX

"Fat."

He slaps his NOT-FAT stomach.

"Fat fat fat fat fat!"

The slaps have created a rhythm. drumlike, almost. With... fleshy undertones.

"Am I-?" he turns around.

I don't even have to look up. I just continue to nibble away at my fingernail as I leaf through a textbook, looking for an elusive answer.

"No." I say.

And it's actually the truth. I usually lie a lot. Well, about stuff like this. It was sort of a problem middle of 3rd year. When I ended up leading a hopeless Hufflepuff on. I like it, though. There's a comfort in it. Lying that is, not leading Hufflepuff's on. God no. Lord have mercy.

"Are you sure?" He says, picking his nose but pretending to scratch it.

He should know better. I've known him too long.

"Positive" I say, scribbling an answer down. My sleeve drags across the parchment. It smudges.

"Fuck"

I immediately regret this choice of expletive.

The reason why:

_I take a long drag. Exhaling slowly. It hurts at first, but it's ok... in fact, it feels wonderful. I try to make rings. But I can't. I pass the joint to Seamus. He doesn't TRY to make rings. He DOES make rings. Brilliant. I applaud. My head feels like it's filled with stuffing. _

"_Shhhhhhhhh... Seamus?"_

_I giggle. He giggles. We giggle._

"_Yeah man?"_

"_I like boys."_

"_Duh"_

"_Oh."_

"_Have you fucked one?"_

"_Seamus!"_

_I giggle. He giggles. We giggle._

"_Are you gunna?"_

"_I dunno. Maybe"_

"_Hahah you fuck blokes! That's awesome"_

_The take another hit. _

Hence the reason why, now, any time I use the word "fuck" it is free game for Seamus to torment me re: my sexual preference which is a) none of his business b) not relating to my choice of the word FUCK anyway and c) my business you tard!

"Not now Dean!"

"Shut up," I throw my shoe at him.

"You shut up!" He squeals and,

before you know it-

We're making out.

KIDDING.

That was a total jay-play.

It must've been my imagination taking over.

In actuality, this occurred:

"Don't throw your shoe at me!"

"Fuck you!"

"Not again, Dean! I'm still sore!"

"Oh stop being such an immature prat!"

"Fag!"

"Douche!"

"Homo!"

"HomoER!"

"Queer!"

"Beautiful!"

And then we DO make out.

It's unexpected. I just sorta do it.

I never thought I had it within me, I was always so terrified of the male body. But I find myself kissing him.

I pull away.

I know it's right.

I giggle. He giggles. We giggle.


	3. Phone Calls

Dean loves the telephone.

More specifically, he loves to call Seamus on it.

It's the one thing about summer holiday he actually likes.

(well that's simply not true. Dean likes: a) sleeping late b) not doing homework c) not studying d) staying up late e) staying up late to chat with sister f) going to the movies g) going to the West End h) watching too much tv i) making lemonade on a hot day j) drinking lemonade on a hot day k) seeing his family l) playing sports with his old friends and getting too dirty m) all of them going back to his house and swimming n) swimming o) cars p) calling Seamus)

Seamus is awful with the telephone.

He picks up and presses buttons and doesn't know what to do or where to speak. He's gotten better, for sure, but he's still awful with the telephone.

And Dean loves to torment him.

What Dean likes best about it is when Seamus is trying to find the right end of the receiver, Dean can hear his breath. In and out. Slightly panicked as Seamus doesn't want to look a fool. Dean loves the breath. Sometimes it's better than the actual conversation. But rarely. It's the buildup that he really loves. The buildup to the 4 hours he spends in the closet, surrounded by darkness and stuff coats, talking to his best friends on the phone about anything that pops into his head.

The car door opens and Dean pops the trunk. The air is sticky and warm. Uncomfortable. He pulls his t-shirt down and hikes up his jeans as he gets out of the car.

"Let me get that," his mother says. Messing his hair with her manicured hand.

She goes and makes one attempt to lift his massive luggage trunk from the car trunk, then she giggles.

"I think I better get that, mum," Dean says quietly, smirking.

Love his Mom like he does, she's an office professional through and through and they could never go camping. Not that Dean particularly wants to go camping, it's just the knowing that the possibility is out there that he wants.

He takes his suitcase inside and slides it haphazardly to his room. Almost running over his dog, Fettucini, that was snoozing in the hall.

His room hasn't changed. Still dark blue, with one wall entirely covered with a massive chalkboard. His mother has written, in her perfect cursive, "WELCOME HOME DEAN" and she's drawn a dragon or two and some fireworks.

"Thanks for the drawing, Louise!" he calls to his mother. Sometimes he calls her by her first name. She doesn't mind. He doesn't know why. But he does. Only sometimes. Not when he really needs her. When he is crying or in need of a hug, it's "mum" or "mom".

She's in the kitchen.

"I'm putting up soup!" she calls to him.

"I'm putting up my clothing!" he calls back.

"Carolyn walks to school now!" she calls. He hears the stove flicker, then light. The apartment is small, "Isn't that wild!?"

Dean can't imagine his spoiled little sister Carolyn WALKING in her heels and lip glossy mouth and perfectly straightened hair and designer clothes. And certainly not to her school.

"I don't believe it!" He says, putting his shirts in an empty drawer.

She turns on the Barry Manilow and croons with him in her best "step-into-my-office-baby" voice. She loves taking off a half day of work to pick up her son. Even though he's old enough to take the bus or tube home. She doesn't approve of such activities on his first day of summer break. A mother should be around to do things like cook soup and fail at lifting luggage.

"Soups on!" She hollers and Dean scampers into the tiny kitchen, knocking over a stack of his boxers as he goes.

He slurps canned chicken-noodle-soup happily as his mother drills him about school.

"Learn any math this year?"

SLURP

"no"

"how about english? Read any shakespeare?"

"No mum"

Some noodles fly through his pursed lips.

"How do they expect you to get on in the world without a slightly secular education?!" She groans, throwing her hands up.

Dean swallows a chunk of chicken.

"They don't expect us to get on in the world. They expect us to get on in the wizarding world, Louise. It's different."

"I just don't understand. Taking a class about the... the history of magic, won't help you file papers all day!"

Dean sighs and tips the cracked porcelain bowl to his lips, he sips.

"How's your friends?"

"Fine"

He likes the broth.

"Harry? Ron?"

"Good." SLURP "Good."

"Seamus?"

Dean chokes a bit on the hot liquid. He coughs, his tongue burns.

"He's... good too."

Louise doesn't seem to notice at all.

"You didn't get into any trouble this year, did you?"

"None whatsoever..."

"Good."

Dean washes his bowl and sets it in the old drying rack.

Louise looks at the clock, then at her hands.

"I'm getting old, Dean. Just look at me."

"Nonsense. You're still the most beauteous ever!" he crow's and throws his arm around her, "I really miss you when I'm away mum..." (notice he said MUM there, not LOUISE. get it?)

Louise just looks at her boy. All grown up. Taller than she. Strapping, an old relic might say. He thinks she doesn't notice, but she does. How every time she says his name... his face goes red or he chokes or coughs or giggles or smirks or BLINKS, even. She sees everything. She's his mother, after all. They know they're sons better than anyone save the sons themselves. Mothers are perceptive creatures, indeed.

"Shall we go to the cinema tonight?" She asks, flipping through the paper. Half concentrating.

"I was thinking Chinese Take-Out and a movie?"

"Perfect. We'll have to work around-"

"Is the wanker home!?

A voice cries from the entry. Carolyn enters. She's become more of a Seventeen reading, lip gloss overusing, chuck taylor wearing pretend hipster slash prep in disguise than he remembers. But she's his sister. And he loves her.

"In this very room, you bitch," he calls to her.

Louise groans,

"Will my children ever stop fighting?!"

The sound of books being dropped rings through out the apartment. The downstairs neighbors will complain about it.

"DEAAAAN!" she shrieks and gallops into the kitchen, the neighbors will complain about this too.

There is much rejoicing as the whole Thomas family (Well, ALMOST whole, but Father's story is unique in itself and it is safe to say he won't be showing up) is reunited at last.

One AM.

Dean creeps out of his bedroom.

After too much General Tso's Chicken and fiddling with a scratched DVD of Little Shop Around the Corner, his mother and sister retired, Dean is pleasantly content with the start of summer. He knows that he will get bored and complain, and that it will get hot and muggy, and he will get teased, or he'll get drunk, or he'll do SOMETHING to piss his mother or sister off. But right now, in this very moment. Everything is perfect.

He picks the phone off the receiver and quietly steps into the closet.

He dials a number he knows by heart even though he uses it very few times a year.

Someone picks up. He inhales the scent of fur.

The breath. How wonderful. How-

"Hey buddy."

It's his voice.

Things could go to hell in a hand basket. But right now, Dean's got the telephone in his hand, and his best friend on the line.

He could ask for nothing more.

Nothing.


	4. The Yuletide Festivus

xX... Well here's the fourth little ficlet! Some SERIOUS fluff going down! Enjoy, mon amis! ...xX

It was sorta a Christmas tradition. Kinda sorta.

You know how it goes.

Every Christmas my whole neighborhood would dress up in drippy Dickensian costume and parade about in the streets singing and talking in loud booming voices and drinking too much and everyone would throw parties and open up their homes for everyone else and, basically, it was just another excuse for the adults to get smashed and for the kids to stuff themselves silly and for one and all to have a jolly good ole time.

That and the dressing up. That was always fun.

Back when I was little, back before I started going away for school and back before the rumors started to spread about me, back before all that- I would spend my Yuletide Festivus (as it was so aptly titled) with my neighbor Ben and my sister Cammie. About an hour before we had planned to meet Ben in the square which all of our homes surrounded, Cammie and I would scramble through the little house we (sometimes begrudgingly) shared with our parents, getting ready. Cammie would try on the same three appropriately Dickensian dresses she tried on each year and would make a huge fuss about choosing one (even though she always chose the same one). I, on the other hand, would trot over to the compact little steamer machine and I would steam my little shirt and little trousers and little vest etc etc. It was the only time I was allowed to use the steamer and, god how I exploited it.

I would take my time getting dressed. Taking precious care to make sure every detail, down to the replica pocket watch I would keep in my overwrought overcoat, was perfect. Something about my outfit had to be PERFECT.

Then, if I was sufficiently sure I wouldn't be disturbed, I would steal away into mum's closet and try on her heels and dresses and lipstick, all while I waited for my clothes to be ready. It was my little indulgence, and just a small clue of what was to come.

Anyway, enough lousy foreshadowing (which you're obviously not interested in).

Once Cammie and I were dressed to the 9s, we'd bid "adieu" to the parental units and, Cammie putting on her bonnet and I grabbing my walking stick, we'd push open the front door. The wind would whip us strongly in the face, not that we minded (for we knew we had more than our fair share of eggnog awaiting us). We'd stroll leisurely down the stairs, across the street and into the small square.

There we'd meet up with Ben. He was a tall boy with rosy cheeks and chestnut hair that stuck out every which way. He always came dressed as Scrooge, his outfit topped off with a ridiculous beard. We'd all say "allo" and "cheerio" and whatnot to each other. Then Ben would give the report on what was being served at his house, and Cammie would fill us in on the scouting she'd done in our kitchen. From there, we'd make a quick visual sweep of the other 5 or so houses that had major parties where we could dine and wine unnoticed. We obviously had to map out our route.

All in all, the Yuletide Festivus was a jolly good time to be had by all and Cammie, Ben and I enjoyed our perfect little Christmasy existence for a while.

And then I got my letter. My parents had been expecting it, they explained to me. I was unsure what this all meant. They instructed me not to tell my friends, even Ben. The next day I was over at Ben's house for a snack and our favorite game of "pretend to die" in which we would make up ridiculously complicated methods of dying and the other would have to act them out to the best of his ability.

Somewhere between the "flaming arrow to the heart makes you run into a large hornets nest" and the "drink arsenic then jump into a lake only to throw it up then you swallow it back down and choke to death on your own vomit" I kissed him. I was 11. He was 11. His mouth tasted like cookies and milk and, I imagine, mine did as well. I was wearing a faint trace of my mothers lipstick and when our lips parted I had transferred some of it to his. I smiled at him sideways. He looked back at me.

"What was that?"

"I unno. What do you think it was?"

"I unno."

He rubbed his head, his brownish hair going this way and that (as usual).

"Right then. Where were we?"

I proceeded to mime choking on my own vomit.

The next day I went to London to buy my school supplies. I stayed with my aunt there until school started.

It's probably all for the best.

You know, the whole "awkward" thing with Ben probably wouldn'tve been fun. Especially since, when I returned home for my first holiday, Ben had (apparently) spread it around that I was a poof and I was greeted with a nice long walloping from the local boys while I came home from the grocery one snowy day on my first Christmas break.

But that's all old news.

Gradually, I stopped coming home for Christmas holiday.

And when I did, I kept to myself. I rarely left the house.

And I certainly didn't participate in the Yuletide Festivus.

Until one night.

As I washed my face, my best friend Dean strolled in. He started to brush his teeth.

If only I had high tailed it out of there, if only I hadn't given a shit how his day was, if only I hadn't been too busy wondering if he'd had much dental work done, if only I hadn't lingered Dean might've never brought it up.

"Member that Yuletide thing you was tellin me bout?" he says, mouth full with toothpaste.

I nod. Apprehensively.

He spits.

He rinses.

"I don't mean to, like, you know, throw myself on you but my parents are going to Crete for the holiday and, because it's a muggle holiday and all, I'd end up missing start of term if I went with them. I don't know about you, but I certainly don't fancy hanging bout here for the holiday so... what I'm getting at is... Right... Like... you know, could I hang with you?"

There was a pause as he scratched his back and as I ran my wet fingers through my hair.

"I... dunno..."

"We don't even have to do that whole "yuletide" shit. I was just bringing it up as a conversation starter. I know it's really not cool to invite yourself places but, seriously, you're clueless sometimes and I wasn't in the mood to beat about the fucking bush."

He adjusts his shirt.

Funny how, at times like these, it's the minute detail I tend to focus on.

His shirt is a plaid button down.

Green and red.

Christmasy.

It was purposefully.

Leave it to Dean to plan everything down to his wardrobe when he wants something from me.

Typ-EE-cal!

I sigh.

"I have to ask my parents."

He nods.

"Cool."

"Yeah... Cool..."

It's not.

The last thing I want is for a) Dean to have to meet my crazy family and b) Dean to have to realize what a total loser I am back at home.

But I, being the good boy that I am, ask my folks and they're all about the "woo woo Seamus-has-friends-let's-support-him" tactic.

I relay the message to Dean who just lets out a slightly horrific cry which wakes up poor Ron Weasley who'd been innocently trying to sleep.

"Where's the canon?"

So that is how we came to this.

Dean. Me.

A trunk by our respective sides.

Standing in front of my house.

The taxi cab long paid and departed.

"Should we, like, go in?"

I snap out of it and nod. Exhaling.

"Yeah. Right. Let's do it."

"Is this awkward? Fuck. I'm sorry man," he stutters.

"No no no! Really! It's cool."

He doesn't totally by this but he does proceed to heave his trunk up the stairs.

I see a curtain rustle in the house next to ours and I swear I can see an eye staring at me.

I blink.

It's gone.

"Up you go! Little fucker..." My trunk begins the journey up the stairs.

When Dean is safely in the guest room unpacking his things, I corner Cammie on the way pack from the kitchen with a pudding in her hand.

"What ever happened to Ben?" I say.

She looks up from licking the top.

"You mean the kid we used to Festivus with?" she asks. Swallowing some chocolate/vanilla swirl.

"No the other Ben I could possibly be talking about"

"No need to be snarky."

"Well?"

"He's fine."

"Oh great. That's swell. Real helpful, Cammie."

"I don't really know. I don't see him very often. He's never at the cinema, at least."

"Right. But he... he still lives next door?"

Yeah. Course. Do you think anyone ever does anything exciting in this stupid town?"

"Course. What was I thinking?"

"You obviously weren't!" She smiles, tapping me on the forehead with the sticky lid, and she exits stage right. The little vixen.

Shaking my head, I go up to Dean's room and knock on the frame.

"Shall I show you 'round?"

"Sure."

Ten minutes later.

"And that's about it."

We've covered the park, the grocery (famous site of my beating), the cinema, the shops, and the one museum we have.

We sit on the stoop.

Doing nothing.

Chewing the fat, one might say if one was from Georgia or thereabouts.

(But we're not, so not fat gets chewed).

We skip rocks from the stoop.

It's more like throwing pebbles off the top step and into the street,

but "skip rocks from the stoop" sounds much more fun.

"Seamus?"

I look up. Dean looks up.

He's wearing a pair of jeans and a I can see the tails of his shirt, poking out from beneath his lumpy sweater. His hair still sticks in every direction. It's still chestnut colored. Though he's much taller than he was at 11.

"Yeah?" I say stupidly, me being the master of "smooth" and all.

"You don't remember me?" He asks. Looking a tad disappointed, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He's wearing a hat too, I forgot to mention it. One of those silly hats that fit snugly around you and they have the two little tassel/bally type things that flop around by your chin. By no means is this "cool". Not even in our provincial little town.

"Ben?" I say, as if it could be anyone else. I stand up.

"Yeah!"

"Course I remember you! You told everyone that I was a flamer when we were 11!"

He stops and looks around,

"No, no mate. That wasn't me! That was Roman Dowage!"

No. Fucking. Way.

All these years I've been harboring this grudge for NOTHING!? I almost faint.

"Well there goes years of hate..." I say stupidly.

Dean gives a small cough. The kind he gives when he wants you to compliment him.

"Oh!" I say, looking down, "And this is my mate from school- Dean. Dean Ben. Ben Dean. La la la, you're friends!"

They shake hands.

"Sit down?" I ask.

Ben complies.

"Roman tried to get me to tell everyone that you'd kissed me," Ben said. I just blushed.

"Fucker."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Who's Roman? Dean asks, totally butting in.

"Who ISN'T Roman?" I say, in a failed attempt to be witty. Key word: Failed.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Ben says. Putting it lightly, 'a while' is code for '5 years'.

"Yeah it's been a long time. Good to see you though," I say.

"We've established that, I think,"

"Yeah. We have." I laugh.

My bedroom.

The sun is gone from the sky.

Dean climbs in my bed.

"So, that kid... Ben?"

"Yeah. That's his name."

"Sounds like you kissed him."

"When I was 11. What do you care, you like girls."

"Fair enough."

I climb in with him.

It's one of those totally platonic buddy-buddy things we're so fond of and that make us so "quirky".

I drape Dean's strong forearm over me and we lay in silence for a while. I stare at my room. It's embarrassing. Blue rocket ship wallpaper, a small twin bed in one corner. Way too many actions figures and toys littler the floor and shelves and dresser. My school things flung haphazardly.

"Happy Almost Christmas" Dean says after a while of silence.

"I'm glad you invited yourself to my house for the holiday" I say.

We sit in silence again.

"Anything you wanna tell me? You know... GUY related?"

Drop anymore hints, Dean, and people'll think you're double crossing Waldo!

"Nice lad."

"What was up with the hat, though?"

"I know, right?!"

If this were a drippy comedy, imagine the camera's slow zoom out as we continue to laugh and joke about poor Ben's lack of fashion.

But it's not. So, in actuality, after about ten more seconds of that there was a nice long awkward silence. Dean said he had to go call his girlfriend and off he went.

I turned off my light and went to sleep.

The next morning is the day of the Yuletide Festivus.

I wake up at around 3.30am because I'm a freak like that and I descend the stairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. A window in our kitchen conveniently looks into Ben's kitchen, though I've never really seen it because one of us always has our curtains shut. But not at 3.30am. I fill my glass with water when I notice Ben, in his ridiculous jammies, getting a glass of water on his side of the world. I knock on the glass. He looks up and waves, smiling. I point to the outside, he nods and, seconds later, we're shivering on the stoop.

"Morning." I say.

"Same to you."

"How's that water?"

"Wet."

"That's good. You wanna come in and, like, you know, stop freezing?"

"Sure."

I put a kettle on.

He sits at the kitchen table and fidgets.

I pour the tea.

I distribute the tea.

We sip.

"Sucks that we've... fallen out of touch and stuff," He says. rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Well I kinda thought you told the whole world I was a poof and then I kinda got beating up so I wasn't running to your side, dear." I say. Putting in a dollop of honey.

"Right. Sorry. This town's a dick, anyway."

"You going to the Yuletide Festivus?" I ask, not really wanting to dissect the state of the town.

"Course. Always go. The whole fucking square goes. I don't know what I'd do with my Christmas Eve!" He says sarcastically.

We sit in contented silence, sipping our tea.

"So Dean..." Ben says.

"Yeah. Good guy."

"You're not like..." He doesn't really want to say it.

"Well I am, but he's not." I say quickly.

"Oh. Right. I see." he says quicker.

Something tells me he doesn't. But that's ok.

The sun rises.

Not all at once, but over the whole conversation. That would be just weird if it popped up.

"You should probably go." I say.

He nods.

"See you at the Festivus?" he says, getting up.

"Seems like it."

"Thanks for the tea."

He leaves.

I contemplate kissing him again.

I decide not to.

(for now).

As I stand in the shower, I take a moment to reflect upon how RANDOM this holiday has been.

It all seems a bit...

Well. I dunno.

Dean and I spend a happy day drinking lots of warm sweet drinks and doing lots of long essays. We sprawl out on the floor of my bedroom and write with large flourishes and giggle when we spill some on our parchment.

It's all good fun, obviously.

I finish a particularly brutal Potions essay.

I lay down to rest.

Dean rests with me.

We rest quietly and it's times like these when I'm thankful for such a great best friend. Someone who likes me for who I am and someone who can appreciate nice silences.

"It's going to be awkward." He says (what i've been thinking) after a while.

"No it's not. I won't let it."

"You shouldn't worry. I'll hang with Cammie."

"Don't be stupid. You forced yourself upon my family and I am going to make sure you get forced upon us!"

"I don't even LIKE Festivus's he says."

And the cogs start turning.

Four hours later.

Ben, Dean and I sit in a car. Dean drives placidly.

"Fuck the Festivus!" Ben says after a long silence.

Dean giggles. Laughs. Whatever's more masculine.

"Fuck it all!" He cries.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" I shout.

Ben rolls down his window,

"FUUUUUCK!"

We all follow suit.

A collective "FUCK" rings throughout the countryside.

We arrive.

THe water is still and serene and it's deathly cold. We pile out and sit on the rocks. Our little group. When Ben turns away Dean makes a little fire. Ben busts out the beer and we all just lean back and hang for a while. Admiring the sunset and the huddling towards the fire.

Dean goes off to take a leak.

"I'm not, you know." Ben says.

I flip a bottle cap.

"I figured."

"You figured?"

"Well I'd hoped, if you WERE, that you'dve made a move by now."

"I see."

"I guess you and I peaked at age 11..." I sigh.

"It's not often you'll get to say that."

I kiss him. Just to make sure. His lips are cold.

I pull away.

"Well that was nice. But only because I haven't gotten any in a long while." He says. I can't figure out whether or whether not to be insulted.

Regardless, we somehow manage to return home.

The evening, pleasant but quiet.

Dean and I lay together in my bed.

"Nothing happened." He says, incredulously.

"He's not."

"Oh."

"It complicates matters."

"A tad."

"Did you notice how I went to take a leak? Give you time to kissy kissy? Aren't I considerate?"

"Yes Dean. You're very considerate."

There is a pause.

I feel like I should be crying. Only, I'm not.

It's ok.

It's not like every guy I meet who's attractive is gay.

That would just be random.

And a little creepy how the whole world was gay.

Whatever.

What fuckin Ever.

Dean and I just lay together in my bed, as un sexual as that can possibly be.

"It's Christmas!" He whispers, his breath smelling of Stella Artois.

"Sure is." I say, and snuggle down, my head buried safely against his chest.

My head rises with every inhale and falls with his every exhale.

And we fall asleep.

Dreaming of Christmas and a world where everyone is attractive and totally into us.

xX... REVIEW PLEASE! HOLLA! ...xX


	5. Acne Cream

xX... here's another one! Enjoy! Review!!! ...xX

"When you kiss," I remember him saying, "Which way does the bloke turn his head?"

I remember him asking this. I remember him studying his face in the mirror. I remember me applying acne cream.

I hate acne cream.

I hate how it's cold and how it's crusty and how you can never get comfortable at night when you have it one and I hate how it smells and how it makes your face feel weird and I hate how it gets all over your fingers when you apply it and how it stains your towels and how, it always seems, you're the only person in the world who needs it.

We were 12.

"The bloke always tilts right," I say. Matter-of-factly.

In reality, I have no fucking clue which way a guy tilts his head when kissing but, when dealing with my best friend, it's always better to have an answer. Pause in a single moment of question and prepare to be pecked apart. Let me tell you.

"Right. Thanks," he says, NOT putting on acne cream.

He brushes. He spits. He rinses.

I try, without my luck, to get some acne cream out of my hair.

We were 13.

I couldn't believe it.

"I forgot, I went to the left! it was a bloody disaster!" he raves, brushing his teeth, "I shoulda listened to you mate- you're ALWAYS right!"

I'm still putting on acne cream.

My face is still cratered.

It's in my eyebrows. What a strange feeling.

"And then, I tried to grab her tit- like, you know, for laughs. And she hit me!"

"Sorry mate," I say, not listening. Totally absorbed in the dabbing of cream onto pizza'd face.

"I'm a bloody failure..." He groans and, perfect face and all, retires to the dorm.

We were 14.

Two.

Two zits.

Two large ugly resourceful zits.

I throw caution to the wind and squeeze the tube hard, the white cream comes out in spurts.

There are bad days. And there are days in which you contemplate suicide multiple times. That day was the latter.

He walks in.

"You ok?"

I look at him. I look at my white fingers.

"No."

If I had clean hands, I would wipe my eyes but I can't. I can't because it will sting if I do and, instead, I'm stuck with that awful feeling when there are tears flooding your eyes. It's just plain uncomfortable.

"Whassa matter?" He asks, trying to be interested. Well, it's considerate of him. But he's combing through his hair. It's just been cut, you see.

"I-" I dab angrily at zit numero uno, on my chin.

He takes out his razor.

14 and shaving.

There are many things unfair in this world. That is one of them.

"Mmm?" He asks, lips pursued, chin up, shaving his neck.

"Never mind," I say and gob the last bit onto my nose.

I wipe the residue angrily on my towel. Not really caring that, in the morning, a large yellow splotch will have appeared.

I brush my teeth.

There is silence.

He washes his razor and splashes water on his craterless face.

"Where you saying some'in?" he asks stupidly.

I pause.

I sigh.

I-

"No. I didn't so nothing."

We were 15.

"Then she took off her shirt and let me touch her tits!" He is happy, "Fuck man!" He doesn't really know WHY he says, but he thinks it makes him cool, "I even tilted left again! I'll never get it right!"

"Try try try" I say, not really listening. I've got problems of my own, you know.

"Anyway she said she loves the stubble!"

He's working on the 'stubble' look. Limey bastard.

I'm still dutifully dabbing.

Fuck it.

Fuck him.

Fuck him and his perfect face and almond shaped eyes that plead and squishy nose and those thin lips that are a dull rosy hue and that he folds in too often.

What...?

I carelessly smear a wad of acne cream over my left cheek.

"I miss a spot?" He asks.

I don't say anything. But I DO quickly turn my head back to my own mirror. Don't need any of that, no sir. No sir indeed.

I feel a little stirring, but nothing big. No fireworks. Nothing like you're supposed to feel. When I'll read books, later, it'll say that most people have a big moment. A big "a-ha!" or, "Eureka!" (if you're of the greek inclination) moment.

Mine was just repressed and confused.

But I am horribly aware of the fact that all he has to do is splash water on his face before bed.

When I make him smell the cream, he makes a face,

"That's sick, man. SICK."

I sigh. He's talking about so many things. 

We were 16.

And all hell breaks loose.

It starts with a rumor.

Then a tearful breakup.

Then him crying on my shoulder.

He doesn't wash his face.

He doesn't brush his teeth.

He doesn't shave.

I put on my cream though, like a good.

Because, no matter what I do, I can't seem to get rid of my acne.

It's not much now, but it's there. And it's hideous.

"I don't understand... She was perfect... She was hot and she was nice and she had great tits..."

I nod understandingly but I'm staring at his ass, which I can see through his cheap linen boxer shorts.

It's not one of those repulsive, in your face, bubble type butts.

It's nice. Unpretentious.

"...I let her do anything! I trust her! I love her! And this is how she rep..."

I don't listen.

But I nod.

And I dab.

And I don't understand.

"It's cuze I leaned left on my first kiss. Fuck. It's always the leaning left! Why can I never remember you?"

He doesn't mean it like that.

He's just flustered and sometimes, when he's flustered, he forgets words.

When he forgets words, all sorts of mayhem ensues.

I'm still not listening. Though I do find it interesting he always blames it on my stupid advice. For all _I_ know, you ARE supposed to lean left!

But I say nothing.

I nod.

And,

as usual.

I dab.

We are 16.

It is late.

And cold.

And I've been studying for mid terms.

I don't have time to sleep, like normal people.

I quietly get into my pajama's and, toiletries safely in hand, I stumble to the bathroom.

My mind swims with astrology, with signs of the zodiac, with tea leaves...

There's just one left.

That bugger on my nose.

It's wife and soft and pink and UGLY.

I'm going home soon, for the holiday, so I take a glump of cream and just plop it on the offending spot.

I think about having a go, but decide not to. I'm not in the mood. Too tired to be bothered.

It's a good thing I don't because he walks in.

He's not wearing a shirt.

He is, however, wearing women's underwear.

"Nice bottoms," I say, without really batting an eye. Though it does accentuate his nice behind. Which I tend to to notice.

"You wouldn't be making fun of me if you knew!" he crows, "I just..."

"You didn't."

"I did."

Fuck. Wow. I hate to admit it, but, it's impressive.

"Nice."

"Thank you."

He bows to an unseen audience.

"I leaned left thought" he says sadly.

"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you do lean left," I don't really want to talk about it. I really would like to go to sleep. Or for him to take off those panties.

"No I'm 100 sure it's right and I always fuck it up! I mean, what's wrong with me? Why can't I follow one of the few, simple rules of manhood? Is there something wrong-"

I leaned left.

So he could lean right.

It's long.

I love the sound.

He is warm.

I pull away.

There is some silence.

He takes out his toothbrush.

"I leaned left for you," I venture.

He nods.

"That means you leaned right. You did it correctly once."

He nods.

"Now you'll stop bitching about it."

He nods.

He spits.

He rinses.

"Thanks," he says and smiles at me.

He turns and walks out, as he gets to the door he turns and looks-

"you've got something... there" He points to his nose.

"It's acne cream," I say, dejectedly.

"Oh. Cool. Is it new? I've never noticed your acne before..."

I love it when people inadvertently make your day.

Or month.

Or life.

Or whatever.

xX... Done! Review, wontcha!?!? ...xX


	6. Harlem Rain London Rain

xX... let me tell you, school is just GETTING IN THE WAY! ...xX

It is raining.

Not the torrid downpours or freezing showers of London Rain. But the sweet, winsome, almost certainly filthy, charming rain of late afternoon, autumn Harlem.

It crackles as it hits the pavement.

A little girl walks with her mother. They hold hands. Her hair is in thick braids. Her backpack shows some bilingual TV character smiling and laughing. Or something. She turns and smiles at him.

Ok, maybe not at HIM. But she certainly smiles at the bus he's on.

That's got to count for something. Right?

He presses his head up against the smudgy window. The hum of the engine vibrates his forehead. The fluorescent lighting casts unforgiving illuminations.

Two boys listen to music out of a large boom box. They don't appear to be going anywhere. They just sit and listen. They've paid their buck. It's dry in the bus, anyway. And they've got nothing better to do. So they ride it up and down the route. As long as they can. Until the bus driver has to get off and kick their "lazy ass" off.

He swallows and moves his lips into something that might, or might not, resemble a smile. He forgets.

With a "mwusssssphhhh" the bus descends and the door opens.

"IN THE BACK!" A hunched over woman wearing a plastic rain bonnet howls at the driver.

The back door creaks its way open.

Footsteps echo purposefully in his ears. Hardly anyone bothers to chat. The sound of umbrellas opening up, their soft "phump" daring the rain to do its worst.

He gets up.

He grabs his bag.

He doesn't know how.

His feet carry him. His arms lift. His brain and his heart both will him to stop.

STOP. they say. STOP. RIDE THE BUS FOREVER WITH THE BOYS AND THEIR BOOMBOX.

But he doesn't listen to either.

He listens to the sounds of his feet splashing in a puddle as he steps off the bus.

The rain is nothing but a drizzle. The bus pulls away with a heavy, pained lurch.

People jostle past him.

He just stands.

In the middle of the sidewalk.

The drizzle getting his clothes wet. His inconsequential clothes. But clothes.

No one looks at him.

Finally,

He exhales. He exhales. Smiles.

His body merges into one again. All he knows is that he is thirsty.

And,

he is home.

----

He's never been to America before, let alone New York.

The wheels hitting the runway at somewhere around 500 miles an hour scared him. The screech of the tires made him see death flash before him. That split second of absolute chaos, where no one is in control of a three-hundred passenger carrying machine. In his mind, visions of flames and explosions and despair flash. He imagines that moment where you realize that the chaos has won the split second battle. That moment. Is there terror? Or perhaps the brain is too busy figuring out what the fuck is going on that by the time you figure it out, it's a tad too late. Seeing as how you've been consumed in flames.

The man at customs looked diplomatic and asked him questions of no real importance.

But they sounded officious so he did his best to answer them.

He had a magazine tucked under his arm, his passport slipped away in-between an ad for women's perfume and a story about post-Bergman Swedish cinema and it's effects on the design world.

He had skipped that article.

His luggage took forever.

When he walks into the "nothing to declare" line, he feels like a liar. A thief. He notices the cameras, watching him, tagging him. He imagines underpaid high school graduates in cheap suits watching him on a monitor. Drinking their corporate-made coffee in standard issue white mugs and wiping away the spit. The spit.

His nostrils fill with the smell of deasel. His bag suddenly feels heavy. He is hit with the knowledge that from here, from this spot on the pavement where taxi's whiz past him, there are so many choices, he doesn't know what to do.

He could go anywhere.

He gets on a bus.

Typical, really.

To get on the right bus when there are ten wrong ones lined up behind.

----

Thirsty. His mouth dry. his lips cracked.

The place is a slip. Walk right by it, not even notice it.

He notices it because there is a tray of homemade scones in the window.

And the steam from an espresso machine shoots into the air as a woman with kinky hair and long, pink fingernails writes down orders on a pad.

He pushes the door open.

"Hey there!" She calls to him, even though she's in the middle of taking an order and there's a line of at least 3 people waiting.

"Hi!" He calls back, as if he's known her his entire life.

For a moment she looks taken back.

By a combination of things.

But she figures she's seen stranger and smiles.

He takes his place in line, behind a man in a turtleneck and beret.

The menu is written on chalkboards and, because the day is winding down, the items are smudged. The pastel pinks, greens, and blues blur together and it seems as though every item is every other item and that instead of ordering a latte you order a cranberrymuffinfreshmozzerellasandwichlatte2for$5.00.

That's what he orders. When it's his turn.

The lady with the kinky hair says,

"Hey baby," and takes his order. When she he pays his $5.00, he has to count out the coins and dollar bills carefully. He's never had to use anything like _this_ before. She laughs and helps him, grabbing what she needs from his outstretched palm.

"Where you from?" She asks, crouching down and opening the display fridge to grab a saran-wrapped mozzarella tomato basil sandwich.

He smiles. Maybe Croatia. that would explain why he doesn't understand.

"England" he says after a while, deciding that he doesn't look Croatian for two reasons. One being that he's NOT, in fact, Croatian and the second having to do with his...

"England! Awesome!" She gives him a paper plate as well. "This your first time?" She asks.

He nods.

"Damn right! You can skip the Empire State building. The Statue of Liberty. Radio City and the UN!"

This is because she has just handed him four small, individually wrapped chocolates. The wrappers depicting one of New York's famous landmarks.

"They're shit anyway" She says, "The chocolate taste better than some nasty-ass b.o.!" She gives him his change and latte and sends him on his way with a smile and a toss of her thick hair.

At a table by the window he warms himself up with his latte. He takes off his coat and scarf, men don't seem to wear them here anyway, and hat.

He looks out the window for a while.

Then he looks down at the table.

Then he looks at his hands.

Then he looks into his soul.

And sips his latte.

----

The building is a small brownstone, squirreled away on some street which doesn't seem to belong.

Off busy Amsterdam Avenue,

there is a block- just one- where a small Hispanic man sells fruit, and a young woman works in a box office during the day and uses her small basement apartment as a brothel in the night.

He stares up at a building.

A young woman in stiletto heels clicks down the pavement.

He bites into his papaya, having just bought it. It's juicy.

Pure.

The first pure thing in...

He carries his bag up the steps. There are nine buzzers. Each one with a different name written on a slip of paper and slid, haphazardly, into dirty plastic slits.

He pushes one of the buttons.

He takes a deep breath.

What did he see,

when he peered into his soul?

----

The staircase is old.

There is no elevator.

The stairs wind their way carelessly around the wall. The banister splays its splinters and the paint is peeling off the way. The dirty white paint falls in chips, littering the ground. It almost looks like snow. Instead, it looks like sadness.

The apartment is in the old attic,

what that actually means is that he has to lug his bag up 4 floors, than he has to force open the massive iron door, decorated with all sorts of graffiti'd obscenities, that leads out onto the roof.

From the roof... one can't see much. He tries, though. That must count for something. He stares into the fifth floor of another, much taller building across the street. It's shadow falls over him, blocking the sun like some massive Pre-War saltshaker. That just happens to be 15 stories tall.

----

It's one room.

There's a mattress. A stove and microwave. A small, partitioned bathroom. On the walls are tacked posters of bands, people, places, images. It covers the four walls. Covers the peeling paint. The Smiths. Bjork. The Shins. Joni Mitchell. The Meligrove Band. Pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal, clipped from magazines, are tacked near the window and a serious looking asian woman with eyes like some endless gray ocean is tapped to a cabinet in the kitchen.

He sets his bag down.

Opens the window.

Takes out a cigarette.

The sheets on the mattress are unmade.

There's a carton of old milk in the fridge.

Lights the cigarette.

The rain starts to come down harder.

There's no heat,

He doesn't take off his coat.

He wraps his scarf tighter.

There must be varying levels of "functioning" he thinks to himself.

Certainly I am functioning.

But that's a shame.

For I am not alive.

He sits down on the floor and smokes slowly. Every breath, his last.

He considers heroin. Or whatever people do these days.

But decides not to.

He'd rather eat a papaya.

Standing up,

cigarette dangling from his lips,

He slams the door shut-

A thousand magazine eyes staring after him.

----

"Hi"

"Hey"

"Good flight?"

"Mmhm"

"Find the place ok?"

"Yup"

The boy in the plaid shirt puts on a kettle.

The gas clicks one time. two times.

No flame.

"Sorry."

"It's ok"

"No, it's not. It sucks"

"Ok it sucks"

Smelling the milk, he drinks tap water.

----

It's a strange scenario.

He left for New York three years ago.

They hadn't spoken in years,

except for a few e-mails,

which,

eventually,

he just stopped responding to.

Don't ask why.

Then, quite out of the blue, he phoned.

And, now, here he is.

One 6 hour flight later, of course.

He attempts to theorize on how, in fact, the boy in the plaid shirt survives, living on 137th street.

He's a skinny white boy.

With pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal and various black and white ads for boxer-briefs, tacked onto the wall.

----

Downstairs his conscious was yelling a million things at him.

Why did he come to America?

For some reason he must've thought that things were going to be different. That, on a different soil, the problems that existed in the land of rolling fog and castles, the land of magic wands of exploding snaps, that the problems in that land wouldn't translate to the land of apple pie and patriotism.

Fucking retarded.

Just because you put on an accent and hide a wand,

it doesn't change anything.

He wanders Manhattan. Looking for something. For anything.

In actuality, he just doesn't want to return to the apartment.

He doesn't want to return to those magazine eyes,

to the fake bulge in the underwear ads.

To the boy in the plaid shirt who's gas doesn't work.

To the boy in the plaid shirt...

He is 14.

He is at school.

This is before the boy in the plaid shirt has begun wearing plaid shirts.

Now he is just the "crazy irish best friend boy".

They are drunk. Like most little kids, they've simply mixed disproportionate amounts of various liquors that shouldn't be combined and downed it all.

Now, twenty minutes after the downing, they lay, face down, on a large armchair. They're still small enough so that they can share an armchair.

It is 2 in the morning.

"I think I'm going to throw up" he says to the boy who isn't quite the boy in the plaid shirt, yet.

"Yeah"

"I don't think that was a good idea"

Always looking out for the good idea.

"Yeah"

"I think I'm going to throw-"

But the boy who's not quite the boy in the plaid shirt has just kissed him.

Of course it's not really a kiss,

they're 14.

It's more like a sloppy pressing of lips.

It's messy.

In a way, though, it's kind of magical.

but not really.

"fuck"

He hobbles to the bathroom and throws up. He spends the rest of the night over the toilet, gagging and throwing up and, when he showers and rests and continues the next day, he won't ever mention that kiss.

Two years later, however, he will ask the boy who's migrating to plaid, if he is, in fact, a "flaming fag"

Inopportune, you'll agree.

The boy migrating to plaid will just stare at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Just a question"

"No. Not JUST a question"

"Can you answer?"

"You're a dickhead"

"Fuck off"

----

A note, fastened to the refrigerator with scotch tape.

_Be home around 7. Don't touch anything in the fridge._

----

It's 12:30.

The boy in the plaid shirt has yet to return.

He reads a magazine.

He reads a book.

He reads tea leaves.

He stares out the window.

He looks at Jake Gyllenhaal. Hoping for something. A connection. Please god, he thinks, let me UNDERSTAND.

The underwear models do nothing.

In his heart, he doesn't understand how something like this can kill a friendship.

In his mind, he does understand.

In his mind he is disgusted

In his mind he pictures-

In real life he hears the door open.

The boy in the plaid shirt is not alone.

With him is an older man. With a goatee and a slight belly.

He stands up.

The boy in the plaid shirt is drunk.

They don't say anything.

anyone.

There is silence.

"Would you mind clearing out, mate?"

The older man giggles.

He couldn't be anymore offended.

He shrinks.

He grabs his bag.

The door slams behind him.

He stops.

His sobs comes out in muffled screams.

He is splattered against the peeling wall, listening to the sounds emanating from the inside.

His sobs are painful. Each one shakes his body. Each one hurts.

----

He goes into the line for residents.

It's shorter.

And, finally, he's not a tourist.

Drug dogs prowl the line.

This is how it must be,

he thinks as he hands the man in the cap his passport.

home again.

There are some things that he just won't ever understand.

Fuck.

That's ok, he supposes.

When he steps out of the over air conditioned terminal-

it's raining.

The torrid downpours of London.

And he would have it no other way.

xX... REVIEW please!! ...xX


	7. Written In the Stars

xX... sorry for the silence, here's just a little ficlet to keep you going! I know it's rather tired old plot line, but I hope to have made it mine slightly! Enjoy!...xX

The stars have been telling it for months; only, no one bothered to look. They rarely do. For man, that great master of all things in this universe, a tiny blip in the stars is terribly inconsequential and rarely gets more than a glance from the scholars, wisemen, and even artists. If only someone had bothered to glance up into the silky heavens, they would have seen it... written clearly as if a note left on the kitchen table by his mum. "Get a pint of milk on your way home".

The air is thick and sweet with the last remnants of spring sliding smoothly into a balmy summer as a heavy thud indicates the popping of a champagne cork. The frothy liquid spills hurriedly out and a pair of lips presses itself to the source, trying clumsily to mop up the foam. The lips pull away, a freckled hand wipes his chin and, Lo! the lips are part of a larger being. A face: mopish sandy hair, bright eyes, the afromentioned lips are thin. He is tall and lanky, to the point of embarrassment. His clothes rarely fit, always one or two sizes too small, giving him the appearance being younger than he actually is. His eyes twinkle strangely as he, outpour of foam stopped, puts the bottle to his thin lips and drinks. Almost immediately he makes a small gagging sound and the bottle is pulled away by a slightly pudgy boy.

"Oy!"

"Fuck off, it's my turn!"

The boy with the thin lips concedes that the thought of the pudgy boy's plump, red lips touching the same bottle neck that his had, makes him a tad excited. As is his shorts weren't tight enough...

Things happen so fast here, on this last day of school. The deep reds of the oval room are offset only by the mountains of food and drink piled on every possibly surface. The thin-lipped boy turns to find another drink only to run straight into a few boys, and one crimson haired girl, passing around a joint.

"Christ, get us killed!"

He props a window open. The air! He breathes in deeply. Mmm. Sweet, almost. As if the whole world knows that for the entire summer, there is no school. The thin-lipped boy staggers off to find some beer.

-------

In another corner, in an arm chair, he sits not moving. His eyes sit in their sockets stiffly and don't dare to move. His mouth does not twitch in the slightest and his foot ceases to tap. The only movement is the slight spasm of the fingers, which move within a tiny radius, doing _something_. It is these moments that strike him as the worst. He is seeing art, something he does from time to time; a terribly crippling process. He becomes totally non responsive and distant when this happens. His mind is filled with colors and lines and images and the outside world melts away. He simply ceases to exist in the present.There is no way to stop this from happening and no way to predict when it will afflict him. At the very moment, a thin charcoal draws its way lazily across a piece of thick parchment; strong arches, gothic almost, like a cathedral. A bit of shading... like some sort of Catholic butterfly. Christ on the cross. Vivienne Westwood. Something. Nothing. Shit.

No one bothers him when he is like this. They simply wait for it to pass and, when it does, continue on as if nothing strange has happened.

He is trying to remember the female figure... curly hair, a plump face... but what about the breasts? How supple must they be? What is ideal, anyway? What is-

Gone. The thin film glazing his eyeballs dissipates. What is that? A smell. He turns his head slowly- an open window.

Mmm. He breathes in. Sweet, the air is. One can taste it. But what does it look like? What does a taste look like, he wonders?

-------

On the rolling lawn, the sounds of the various parties are muffled. One can barely hear a distant rumbling which is the Gryffindors drinking themselves silly, or the Ravenclaws gorging themselves and playing Scrabble. He prostrates himself on the lawn and tries to envision the taste of the sweet air. Down by the lake, it mixes with something salty- pungent. It must be a dark line, black, or gray, something. He closes his eyes, "Now!" he wishes, "Now let me become incapacitated with creativity! Not in the party!" But he cannot will himself to be artistic. It must sweep over him. He lays his head down, his hair mixing slightly with the soft grass, his body cushioned. Hands behind his head, he lets out a low whistle.

"Ah yes," a voice pipes up. The boy with thin lips leans against a pillar, his scarf billowing cinematically in the fragrant wind.

In the grass, he lifts himself up, balancing his body on his elbows.

"Seamus."

The thin-lipped boy, Seamus, lets out a slight yawn.

"Mind if I join you, Dean m'boy?"

Dean nods a "no" and Seamus sits next to him. Wiping hair from his face, he brings his knees close to his chest.

"Are you cold?" asks Dean.

"Hardly."

"You look cold"

"I think, perhaps, I am getting sick."

"The scarf-"

"-scarf. Yes."

There is a pleasant silence between the boys. Dean draws his knees close as well and soon the two boys are in the same position. The moon shimmers brilliantly over the lake, the stars twinkling ominously nearby.

"I saw you, your fingers..." begins Seamus, twirling his hair casually.

"I was trying to think of the female body."

"you dog!"

There is much ribbing, most of which Dean resists with the platonic air only a "serious artist" could bring to the idea of drawing the female form.

"I always knew you were a smut hound!"

"You'll never grow up." is the comment shot back by the "serious artist".

Seamus draws his wand and lets it fall between his fingers, back and forth- and twirl! Gently, without realizing. Dean stares at the wand, mouth open slightly, not daring to move. The chestnut thing begins at the forefinger and sways gently back and forth, collapse imminent, then it is swung in-between the inner fingers, the middle giving it a nice push and back it goes. Dean's eyes follow the wand intently. For a moment, there is nothing else but the wand and the fingers which manipulate it. Such a microcosm, Dean has never seen before and he is compelled to draw but, lacking a pad, he desists. Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, the wand falls with a gentle thud into other grass.

"Oh shit" Seamus says quietly, without real feeling.

Dean shoots his hand out quickly to pick up the wand, his knuckles slightly sweaty.

"Here," he says suddenly awkward.

As the wand changes hand, Dean's fingertip brushes Seamus'. Accidentally, of course, but still- Seamus feels it. Soft on his rather coarse fingers. He shuts his eyes tightly for a second, until the moment passes and his shorts have returned to normal.

"Nice term?" Seamus finally asks.

"all right"

"Good to get back home"

"Of course"

"We still meeting in London, come July?"

"Of course"

"Right. Say hello to your Mum, right?"

"Of course"

Seamus chews a piece of grass,

"What are you most looking forward to?"

Dean takes a moment to think about it.

"Being by myself."

It comes out harsher than intended, maybe.

"Oh"

As always, Dean is clueless to any and all subtext.

"I like talking to you like this, you know" Seamus says matter-of-factly, after a moment.

"What d'you mean?" Dean turns his head and draws his knees close.

"Like just this, you know? Like just me and you, like... on the grass. In the summer. Like, fuck, just smell," he breathes in heavily, "the air. Mmm..."

Dean opens his mouth and breathes in.

Seamus leans in and presses his thin lips quietly to Deans.

There is something of a silence, only, it's the loudest silence either of them has ever endured.

"Shit. I'm sorry."

"No no It's... It's... no It's..."

This time it is Dean, head tilted slightly, legs slowly outstretching. He wraps his arms hesitantly around Seamus.

The stars had predicted it, of course, but who listens to them anyway?

It is longer this time. Afterwards, Seamus falls back down dramatically into the grass.

"God...!"

"Is this... ok?"

Seamus nods. Dean smiles a relieved smile.

The two boys take a deep breath, as Seamus loosens his tie a bit.

xX... won't you review!? ...xX


	8. If

xX... forgive the long absence, won't you? ...xX

I can't stop staring at him.

He's got charcoal eyes and a thin face like a playing card.

From where I'm sitting I can see him staring, not at me, but straight ahead. It's comforting to observe un noticed. Perhaps even without care. When he laughs at a joke his whole face lights up.

The play is rather boring, so I spend most of my time looking at _him_.

I don't stand at the end. No one does. Instead, we clap politely and think of the millions of things undone while we languished away, awash in _words_. 

words. words. words. jesus fucking christ on a cross. 

"That was crap," he says to me when we can stop being polite.

I pass _him_ on the stairs. We exchange glances. Possibly, it's "meaningful". Possibly I think he has a great ass.

We take a cab home. It's bitter cold out, the wind is rather amateur acupuncture. The night is not safe for two gay boys, no matter the inconspicuousness of their dress.

The cab rocks back and forth. The radio plays Christian alt-rock quietly in the background.

I think about his coat. His shoes. His hair. His lips. The small glimpse of Calvin Klein I got when we passed each other in the Bar line. I think about this:

"_Hi" I would say, having gathered courage from Lord-knows-where, "Enjoy the show?"_

_He would say nothing for a while, perhaps he would smile knowingly and look down at his shoe laces._

"_It was a tad boring."_

_No apology in his voice._

"_I could do with a cup of coffee."_

_We would go to a coffee shop and sit for hours talking about:_

_-Stew (the rocker, not the food)_

_-Stew (the food, not the rocker)_

_-Michael Cunningham novels_

_-dinner plates in funky shapes_

_-how tulips are the most beautiful_

_-Lorca's "American" poems_

_-Manchester U.  
-Jake Gyllenhaal_

_I will feel like I know him better than I have ever known anyone._

_We will not stop talking. Not for three hours. The hairy Greek who owns the diner (as all diners are owned by them) will kick us out and he will sit in the park and continue our discourse on the merits of the circus. It will not matter that we are two gay boys and that the city is dangerous at night. We will be in our own little bubble._

_I will get his number._

_He will tell me his name is -----._

_I will not sleep, even when you ask me what is wrong and make me warm milk with honey and not even ask where I've been._

_I will wait and wait and wait and wait for him to call._

_I will sneak out to meet him when he does, I will not know why I hide him from you but I will. Perhaps because I know the enormity of it all._

_I will spend the night at his plate and we will lay on his couch, eating chinese food, and make out. His mouth will be warm and soft and everything I dreamed your mouth should be._

_When we sleep together, I will not want the end. I will savor everything._

"_We're going to have to be clandestine, my dear," he will whisper into my ear when he returns and puts on boxers._

_We will be clandestine._

_You will check my texts and find out._

_You will cry._

_Surprisingly, it won't hurt at all. You will move out. I will not feel any need to reminisce or mourn your loss. He will move in._

_First we will just go on a weekend._

_Then to Iceland, to see where the earth is still new._

_We will buy a cottage together._

_Adopt a dog._

_Buy china._

_I will invest everything in him._

_When, in twenty years, he simply leaves one day without saying goodbye,_

_I will break and destroy every gift he gave me._

_I will cry._

_For_

_Forty_

_Days_

_And_

_Forty_

_Nights._

_Somehow, I will pick up the pieces._

_Somehow I will move on._

But none of that happens.

"Boring show, eh Dean?" You say to me.

I look up from my thumbs.

Into your dark eyes and pale freckled skin and soft hair and soft baggy sweater.

"The set was pretty," I say.

I move to you and finger your collar.

You smile at me and pretend to be very interested in the program all the sudden,

"I vote on a musical next week."

"Don't leave me," I whisper into your ear. 

After I say that, I realize I mean it.

I realize I am so terribly afraid of that moment.

I'm so terribly afraid of having to go on without sleeping with my arm around you.

You look surprised.

"What on earth, Dean darling?"

I realize I am so thankful.

I realize,

["All the words I want to say to you"

And it is not enough.

xX... WON'T YOU REVIEW, DARLINGS? ...xX


	9. Chapter 9, untitled

Xx... Sorry for the lack of updates! Anywhoodle, zis is a new chapter that could be potentially very confusing! Look out for the (x)'s! ...xX

I am 16 and it is summer.

There is no better place to be 16 in the summer than London.

It's not compactly overwrought like New York or nauseatingly false like Paris. No, London is just perfect. And when it is sultry, and the air smells like curry, there is no finer place to be a 16 year old boy.

Which is what I am.

And there are times when I need my best friend. Like, right now.

See- Dean Thomas is a very good judge of human character, and, frankly, I let him make all my relationship decisions because I am not a very good judge of human character. I am of the school of thought that says, "if she doesn't cheat and her legs are far apart- stick with it!" Dean is of the opposite opinion. He needs more than sex and security. I admire Dean for that, but I don't admire Dean for that. Understand? Probably not. I admire him for his ideals but I lament the fact that his fucking ideals might keep him alone for a long long time. I love Dean, there is absolutely nothing I wouldn't do for him(x), but sometimes he sets himself up for heartbreak with his impossible standards.

Still, impossible standards are better than no standards, which is the silly position I've taken up.

Back to the story, I suppose. But fuck you if that's all you're here for.

I stand outside the half-gate that separates his garden and house from the street. I dig my hands into my thin hoodie and tap my sneaker'd foot back and forth and back and forth. Finally, after what seems like years, he bounds down the front steps and leaps over the gate. Sometimes, my best friend is so gay it hurts.

"Easy Fairy Queen" I say.

(Dean's parents don't like me)

Dean laughs. Dean reaches an unsteady hand and picks some pollen from my hair.

(I've only been into his house once, the summer after our first year.)

"Right. So who's this ladyfriend?" Dean asks as we amble down his leafy suburban street.

(I accidentally spilled the beans. Dean wouldn't talk to me for weeks.)

"I want you to think Erykah Badu then subtract the LSD."

(I haven't been invited back)

xoxoxoxoxo

Dean has always sussed out my ladyfriends.

From the time we were second years, and he told me he thought Lavender Brown had "a good head on her shoulders" right up until last month when he sadly informed me that Parvarti Patil was "a trollop masquerading as a lady".

I always tend to go for the floosies, so I need Dean- mon ami gay, to tell me the deal.

Not to say that the pendulum doesn't swing both ways.

I mean, I can't tell you the number of times I've had to go into a Starbucks or CD store to check out the boy behind the counter, or pass notes to Cederic Diggory(xx). But I'm crap and sussing out boys, as Dean will tell you- still it's nice that he bothers to ask me.

That's really what counts, the thought.

the thought the thought the thought

Dean hasn't had many boyfriends.

It's not that he's not an attractive catch, I mean, he totally is and I'm not just saying that.

He's super smart and rather good looking and not obnoxious in the way most gays tend to be. Like all pink and Kylie-loving. It's not that Dean is a self-hating gay; he just thinks that he is attracted to guys because they're... guys. If he wanted someone to listen to Kylie and paint his nails with, he'd be into girls.

We've never talked about it. It's what I've sussed out.

Dean has received approximately three love notes. Two of them being of the "do you like check me check YES or NO" from girls.

I've always found it funny that Dean doesn't knock 'em dead in the boy department.

I've heard the rumors, too.

Sometimes I wonder if that's what scares them away.

I try and think "no" but I can't help thinking

"yes"

xoxoxoxox

She has the most beautiful head of hair.

That's what first attracted me to her, honest.

She works in a bookshop and wears glasses the color of licorice.

Her hair is thick and in tight girls. It's mocha colored with streaks of this and that, shades of blonde and brown and black. She always wears "frocks". She tried to listen to "The Arcade Fire" because her last boyfriend(xxx) listened to them but she doesn't like them. She likes "Beirut" and she likes "Patti Smith" and she likes "Patrick Wolf" and she likes "Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings" and she likes "Erykah Badu" and she likes "Beat the Devil" and she likes "Stew".

She is beautiful when I imagine her listening to music.

When I imagine her walking down the steps of her semi with her headphones on. I imagine "Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings" talking about the things on their mind. I imagine her head bopping slightly as she gets on the tube and takes out he book. I imagine her half smile, her eyebrows going up slightly, her lips touching and untouching barely. Barely noticeable unless you're up-close, with a strong camera. Subconsciously mouthing the words without mouthing them. She sings along in her head and

she closes her eyes so her eyeballs can dance wildly even when she cannot.

xoxoxoxoxo

"Seamus... She's..."

We stand across the street. Looking in sneakily. I kick at some gravel to prevent my blushing face from being seen.

"Once I minus the LSD, you're absolutely right!"

I run my hand through my hair, trying to feign disinterest even though I desperately needed Dean's advice and called him here in the first place(xxxx), a fact we're not discussing because I'm trying to be cool and feign disinterest.

"I'm going in," he says resolutely.

And indeed, in he goes.

xoxoxoxoxo

(xxxxx)

xoxoxoxoxo

It is the end of the summer.

Fireflies buzz with purpose, perhaps a bit more ferociously then they did last week, they know that this counts. The last time. The last Tuesday, really. The last Tuesday before back to the humdrum. Back to the abnormal. Back to the seclusion.

I sit at a table with her. We are sharing a latte and nurse it as if our lives depend on it. I lean back in my chair and she lifts her glasses up to rub her eyes.

It is three a.m.

"Happy Wednesday"

She is looking down at her watch, just noticing this and that and perhaps she remembers the birth mark I have on the small of my back or perhaps just thinking about Yoko and he she really did fuck everything up.

I am thinking about her hair, as I often do.

But really, my mind keeps wandering back to her wonderful middle toe.

In my mind, this is where I picture Dean at this very moment:

It is very late. Or early, depending on how you look at things. 3 a.m.

He, being Dean of course, is walking the square besides his house. He clutches the other boys hand tightly. The boy who wears his hair a bit too long and a bit too messy and whose clothes are a bit too wrinkled and whose eyes are a bit too far apart and red from lack of sleep. The boy clutches Dean's hand back just as tightly. The cigarette drops from the boys' mouth onto the pavement and Dean stamps it out and the boy pulls him into a soft kiss, tasting of cigarettes and roasted new potatoes.

For some reason, there are a million stars visible from this oblique suburban London square. What an odd occurrence it is. Stars in the city. So perfect at this very moment.

The boy lets go and Dean rubs the side of his head.

The boy realizes he can't go another ten seconds without Dean's lips on his.

Perhaps some fireworks would go off in the distance at this part, and someone will have to kick their leg up. Dean will.

He's always been the romantic one.

He savors the taste of the boy, the softness of his lips, the strange smell, the good smell,

the good everything(xxxxxx)

* * *

(x)Enter Dean. We are fourth years. His face is splotchy.

"You ok?

He says nothing.

"You ok?

Again the same, only this time he goes to his bed and flops onto it dramatically.

"Dean..."

He doesn't even have to say anything. I know. After all, I'm his best friend. I go over to where he lays and sit next to his sprawled out body. His hear is thick as I run my hands through it. I don't know what came over me next. I mean, I knew he was hurting and I knew it wasn't my fault, but somehow I felt it was. It wasn't love, in the erotic sense. It wasn't duty, no matter what I say. It was probably compassion. It was compassion that leads me to slowly unbutton his corduroy trousers that night. It was compassion that guided my mouth, my tongue, my lips. It was compassion which made me warm.

(xx)"Well!?" he bounds up to me when I emerge from the used vinyl shop. He holds a latte he picked up to kill time while I hunted the prey.

"He's got nice eyes..."

"Yeah? And...?"

"For chrissakes Dean! I only said about four words to the boy, and you know I'm shit at this!"

We sit on the curb and I take a sip of his latte.

"He does have nice eyes..." he says dreamily, thinking of all his unattainable love.

(xxx)We are at a rock club. I see them. Dean is with me, trying to get drinks off of some old gerry at the bar. She is in a floral, whatchamacallit. I really... I mean, the only way to describe it is to call it a frock, but that's not doing it justice. I suppose only she could pull it off. With her skin the color of chocolate and her beautiful beautiful hair and bangled arms with tattoos and her glam heels. I have to blink.

He wears skinny jeans. He has an indie mullet. He listens to "The Arcade Fire". So does Dean, though I tell him to get sense. That's why we're here.

To listen to "The Arcade Fire".

And to fall in love, I suppose.

(xxxx)"Hey"

"Hey"

"Did I wake you?"

"Nah... A little"

"Sorry."

"S'ok"

"How's you?"

"I's good"

"Your mockery is not pretty"

"Your face is not pretty"

"Fuck off. I have an important mission, should you choose to accept"

"Lemme think about it"

"Dick"

"I accept"

"She works at a bookshop."

"Meet me at the gate tomorrow. I need to sleep now."

"nighty night faggot"

click.

(xxxxx)This is how Dean tells it:

He walks in. Stacks of books everywhere. Hemingway mingles with Plath and "Goodnight Moon" with "Great Gatsby". She is taking inventory on a legal pad. He approaches her and says something along the lines of 'can you help me find something miss?' and of course she, being lovely and beautiful and nice and possessing a head of hair that makes gods envious says 'sure' and he walks her to the philosophy stack and kisses her and at first she is a bit surprised and then she is a bit disgusted and then she is a bit violet and then she hits Dean with her legal pad and says 'what kind of book are you looking for?' and this is when he knows that she is a keeper because she just said that and then he just smirks and looks at her and scratches his freckle and goes 'my friend is in love with you. me? I'm queer.' he makes to go and just as he reaches the door he pauses in anticipation, just for a moment, hardly recognizable to the untrained eye, but she stops him anxiously '...for your... friend' and it's written on yellow legal pad paper. the most wonderful number combination in the world.

(xxxxxx)This is where Dean really is: in bed. He is in his pajamas that he should have given to the Salvation Army years ago in his room which I have never seen but imagine to be covered in juvenile wall paper. He is alone. He doesn't dream of anything, or anyone, because that is stupid.

That is stupid that is stupid that is stupid that is stupid that is stupid that is stupid that

**"NO IT'S NOT!"**

I want to yell at him.

But I can't.

I can only think it. Think it loud enough that maybe there's a way I can penetrate the quietly guarded place that is his mind, his dream world.

But probably not.

I want to be holding him right now, telling him everything is going to be awesome and we're going to be rich and buy brownstones next to each other. I want to lie to him.

Dear god,

I want to lie to him so badly.


End file.
